When the doorbell rang a short while later, Marie-Thérèse cast an apprehensive glance at Celisse. “That must be my mother’s nurse friend. I’ll bet she met Mathieu and the kids as they left the building. They must have let her in downstairs. She’s really nice. I think you’ll like her. Do you want to come with me to open the door?”
Celisse shook her head and stared at her fingers in her lap.
“I’ll be right back then.” Marie-Thérèse picked up Raquel and left the kitchen.
She opened the door to an older lady with dark, graying hair, dressed in a casual outfit in a muted yellow. Over her arm she carried a handbag of the same color. She was as tall as Marie-Thérèse, though rather decidedly round, and her face wrinkled when she smiled, as though she’d smiled often over the years. “Marie-Thérèse?” she asked.
“Yes. Are you Monique?”
The older lady nodded. “Monique Boucher. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Thank you so much for coming. I’m very grateful.” Marie-Thérèse opened the door wider for her to enter. “I know we’ve met a few times, but it’s been a long time.”
“Yes, a pity, isn’t it? I think the last time I saw you was at your wedding. I guess we all get busy with our lives. Ariana and I keep in touch, though. We go out to lunch at least once a month.”
“My mother told me you were the one who converted her to the gospel.”
Monique brought a hand to her ample chest. “Oh no, the Spirit did that. I just happened to be the vehicle.”
“Well, we appreciate it all the same. Without the gospel, life wouldn’t be the same.”
“I hear you.” Monique gently touched Raquel’s cheek, who’d fallen asleep in Marie-Thérèse’s arms. “What an adorable child. About two months old?”
“We’re not sure. They said she may be as young as two weeks, but I find that hard to believe. I think she’s at least six, given where she’s at developmentally. But she is rather small. As soon as they find the mother, they’ll be able to pinpoint a date for her.”
“She looks healthy, at least. That’s something.” Monique looked around the narrow entryway. “So, where’s my little patient?”
“In the kitchen—I hope.” Marie-Thérèse led the way, noticing the tile in her narrow entryway was dirtier than she usually allowed and the carpet runner needed vacuuming. Maybe she could squeeze in the time to clean them today.
In the kitchen, Celisse was nowhere to be seen. Marie-Thérèse peeked under the table but the child wasn’t there. She grimaced. “I guess she’s still scared. We tried to explain what was going on, but she’s . . . well, she’s had a rather hard time of it.”
“So I gathered from what your mother told me when she called last night. Poor child.”
“Well, let’s go to her bedroom. I bet that’s where she’s at. We made her a little tent there.”
Sure enough, Celisse was under the desk, as close to the wall as she could get. The doll that had been in her arms so much in the past few days lay discarded nearby. Marie-Thérèse placed Raquel in Brandon’s bed, checked the bedrail to assure herself it was secure, and then knelt in front of the desk. “Celisse, my mother’s friend is here to see you. Don’t worry. I will stay with you the whole time.” She reached for Celisse but the child cringed and let out a soft cry that tore at Marie-Thérèse’s heart.
“Here, let me talk to her a minute.” Monique sat on the brown carpet, folding her legs Indian style. Given her build, it couldn’t be an easy position to maintain, but her happy face showed no discomfort.
Marie-Thérèse held up the sheet and watched doubtfully. She kept herself in Celisse’s view so the child would know she hadn’t been deserted—again.
“Celisse, I’m Monique. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Celisse said nothing.
“Do you know I’ve got a granddaughter just your age? She’s really pretty, like you, except she doesn’t have blue eyes. You have really pretty eyes. My granddaughter—her name is Olive—has a doll like this one here on the floor. She loves to take it everywhere with her and dress it in different clothes like a real baby. Sometimes she comes to my house and we make crepes together. Have you ever made crepes? I could show you how. I bet your doll would like to see . . .”
Marie-Thérèse listened as Monique rambled on, talking about her granddaughter, her doll, and the crepes they made. She talked about other things too, like how she used to work as a nurse and about all the people she’d made well. Marie-Thérèse’s thoughts gradually wandered. This room, too, showed the lack of attention in the past few days, though no one except her seemed to notice. She studied the shelves in the room, noting how unorganized they were—everything jammed in wherever there was space. Unlike Larissa, Brandon never did seem to care for his possessions.
I should tell Larissa how much I appreciate her neatness, she thought, vowing to do so that day.
Every now and then, Marie-Thérèse glanced back at Celisse, but she didn’t see any change in the little girl’s demeanor until abruptly she reached out for her doll and held it to her chest.
“There you go,” encouraged Monique. “Your doll was missing you, lying there all alone. I’m glad you decided to take care of her. She’ll always be yours, you know. No one will take her away, no matter what you do or don’t do.”
Marie-Thérèse wondered where that idea came from. Had Celisse thought they would use the doll against her somehow? Marie-Thérèse kept silent, deciding that Monique knew better than she did about talking with abused children. She must have treated many during her years of practice.
“I bet your doll would love to make crepes,” Monique began to unfold her legs. “Do you think you could help?” She climbed to her feet, straightening her shirt and adjusting the purse on her shoulder. “Is that okay, with you, Marie-Thérèse? Do you have flour? And what about jam or whipped cream? We can’t have crepes without whipped cream. Oh, and chocolate. We’ll melt it over the crepes.”
“But . . .”
Monique winked at her. “Don’t worry. I have plenty of time. And I really do have a hankering for crepes. Celisse, if you’ll come into the kitchen, we’ll let you put in the ingredients.” Without another word, she left the room. Marie-Thérèse scooped up the sleeping baby and followed.
“I don’t know if it’ll work,” Marie-Thérèse said in the kitchen, settling Raquel in her car seat.
Monique smiled. “We’ll find out, I guess. Do you have an apron I could use?”
“Yes, but I don’t have a crepe-maker.”
“I never use one of those anyway. A simple skillet will do.”
Marie-Thérèse prayed silently as she helped Monique set out the ingredients for the crepes—flour, milk, eggs, salt, as well as strawberry jam, chocolate bars left over from family night, whipped cream, and nuts for toppings.
“I’ll also need a little butter for the pan,” Monique added. “Or margarine. Whatever you have.” Into a bowl went the eggs, milk, and flour. Monique beat the mixture with a wire whisk, humming as she worked.
Marie-Thérèse continued to pray. From the corner of her eye, she saw Celisse slide into the kitchen on silent bare feet. Monique didn’t act surprised. “You can put in the salt,” she said, handing it to her. “Just a few shakes. Then stir it in with this.”
Celisse shook the salt into the batter, looking at Monique for reassurance.
“That’s right,” Monique said. “Maybe one more shake. Good. Now stir. That’s okay if you get a bit on the table. We all do it. Now come over to the pan. Marie-Thérèse, can she stand on that chair? Be careful—the pan is hot, Celisse. We spoon the batter in like this. Then you take the pan and tip it like this and spread it all out evenly. Then we let it cook just a little before we flip it. There. The next time you can do it. I’ll help. Or Marie-Thérèse can help you.”
Before long they had a small mound of warm crepes, and they sat at the table slathering them with a mixture of interesting toppings. Celisse’s favorite was whipped c
ream and melted chocolate, while Marie-Thérèse preferred the jam and Monique used only butter. They washed it all down with hot chocolate.
“I haven’t had such a great snack since I made these with my granddaughter,” exclaimed Monique. “I doubt I’ll be able to waddle out the door any time soon, I ate so many. You’ll have to roll me into the hall.”
Celisse smiled.
Monique put her face next to Celisse’s. “Remember how I said I’m a nurse? Or was for many, many years. I helped a lot of people get better before I got old and decided it was time for me to stay home and rest. You have a sore, don’t you? And it hurts. I know it does. We have to look at it. Whether it’s me or somebody else, Marie-Thérèse has the responsibility to make sure you stay healthy. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to let me look at it and tell you what it is, or do you want to go to someone else? Either way, Marie-Thérèse will stay with you.”
Unwaveringly, Monique held Celisse’s gaze. For a long moment there was utter silence in the kitchen and then Celisse held up a slender hand at pointed at Monique. Relief chased out the anxiety in Marie-Thérèse’s heart. After seeing the pain Celisse had gone through already, she hadn’t wanted to force anything else upon her.
“Good, honey,” Marie-Thérèse said. “I’ll help you.” Before the child could change her mind, Marie-Thérèse stood her on the floor and pulled the elastic of her pants down to expose her hip and the sore. It was oozing now, a dark pus that smelled worse than anything Marie-Thérèse could remember smelling in a long time. A yellow stain was already spreading on Celisse’s clothes.
Monique peered at the sore without touching it. “Yes, that’s what I thought it might be from your description. Still, it’s not very common. It’s a boil.”
“A boil?”
“Yes. Like the ones inflicted upon the people of Egypt during the time of Pharaoh and Moses. Terrible things. Painful, and sometimes not easy to get rid of.”
Marie-Thérèse stared at the boil and at Celisse’s blank face. “What causes them?”
“There are a number of different causes— including bacterial infection, illness, stress, and food allergies. Sometimes, though, we don’t know the cause. In Celisse’s case, poor nutrition and hygiene could be a factor. We can’t know for sure, but we do know her body has toxins and is getting rid of them. With good diet and proper care to prevent the boil from recurring or spreading, she will likely never have another one.”
“It can spread?” Marie-Thérèse asked.
“Yes, even to other people. But if we keep the area clean, use only clean towels on her, and wash our hands after we handle it, we shouldn’t have any problem.”
“So how do we get rid of it?” Marie-Thérèse looked uncertainly at the sore, feeling repulsed by the smell and the pus. Poor Celisse.
“Well . . .” Monique gingerly felt the puffy red skin surrounding the sore. Celisse’s lips clamped together, but she didn’t let out a sound. “With something this severe, I’d say we have three options. One would be for a doctor to simply cut it out.” Immediately, Celisse stiffened.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Monique reassured her, “there are still other ways we could try first. I only mentioned the cutting because that would really be the most simple. They would take it out, make a stitch or two and you wouldn’t have to think about it again.”
“What are the other options?” Marie-Thérèse slid her fingers along Celisse’s arm in a soothing gesture.
“It’s imperative that we keep it draining. Because once all this pus comes out, it will likely heal over and form again and repeat the entire process. A doctor could make an incision and insert some gauze to keep it open. Or we could use a method that might take a lot longer, but that nearly always works with a minimal amount of pain.”
Marie-Thérèse glanced at Celisse. “The minimal pain is probably our choice. What do we have to do?”
Monique stood and began rummaging through her bag on the counter. “I brought some comfrey that we can make a poultice from, and then you must change it—probably twice a day for three or four days and then once a day for another week or two. Or maybe three weeks.”
“That long?” Marie-Thérèse wondered if Celisse would still be with them. She’d prayed about asking Pascale to allow them to continue fostering the girls but didn’t feel she’d received an answer. Inwardly, she sighed.
“This one could take up to a month to heal completely. But the poultice shouldn’t hurt her—I mean, at least not more than it does already. In a few days even that pain will be gone. But don’t let that fool you. You must keep the comfrey on until there is no more oozing at all. It won’t be easy, but it usually works.”
Marie-Thérèse smiled at Celisse. “I’m up for that if you are. I’ll change your bandage every day and it will get better. Okay with you?” Celisse’s head went up and down.
“Okay now,” said Monique opening a bottle of a green powdered mixture. “This just mixes with water. I have some gauze, but I need some tape and some plastic wrap if you have them. The poultice won’t do any good if it dries out. And I’ll need some wash cloths wet with hot, soapy water.”
Marie-Thérèse gathered the items, while Monique helped Celisse lie on the kitchen table. “This might sting a bit,” Monique was saying, “but just grit your teeth. I have a lollipop here to help you be brave.”
Celisse put the lollipop in her mouth, her blue eyes round. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but her expression was one of the most pleasant Marie-Thérèse had ever seen on her face.
Monique put one of the now-warm wash cloths over the sore and let it sit for a while. Then she removed it and placed her fingers on the skin on either side of the sore, pushing down slightly. “There’s so much pus in here that we don’t want it to leak out of our bandage. Bacteria—usually staphylococcus is in the pus of a boil, and that’s what can make them spread. So we’ll get as much out without actually squeezing—we don’t want it to spread internally. See, I’m not even touching the sore, just on the skin around it. Very softly because it’s really painful.”
Abruptly, the dark pus piled out of the sore. Monique’s sturdy hands were very gentle as they massaged—if it could be called that—but even so Celisse whimpered. She didn’t cry. Marie-Thérèse wiped up the pus gently with another washcloth and was amazed at the amount that emerged. Again and again, she wiped it away. After a while, the pus was a lighter color and Monique lifted her hands. The middle of the sore was now a small crater.
“I know that hurt, Celisse,” Monique said. “You are a very brave girl. Now it won’t hurt hardly at all when the elastic on your pants hits it or if someone bumps you. The reason it was hurting so much before was because of the pressure of all that stuff inside. But now most of it is out. All Marie-Thérèse has to do each day is take off the poultice, wipe away any pus, and put on a new one. In a month, you’ll have only a scar to remind you that it ever hurt at all.”
Marie-Thérèse looked at the stains on Celisse’s clothing. “After we get the poultice on, we’ll need to get you changed.”
“We really should wash the whole area before we put on the poultice,” Monique said. “And our hands as well.”
Within fifteen minutes, Celisse was washed, had the poultice on her hip, and was wearing a new set of clothes.
“Thank you so much,” Marie-Thérèse told Monique. “I don’t know what we’d have done without your help.”
“It’s no problem at all. I’m glad to help. And I’m glad Celisse has someone like you. It’s not everyone who would open their home to two needy children.”
Marie-Thérèse wanted to object. She wanted to say that she hadn’t volunteered for the children, that they’d been thrust upon her. She’d had no choice. That in fact, she was afraid to have them there at all. Not because of the work involved, but because of the fear of losing them. It all sounded too stupid for words, too selfish, and so she remained silent, though she felt guilty at the praise.
“Let me know if you
have any questions or need any more help,” Monique said as she headed for the door. “The only thing I would watch for is if Celisse develops a fever or chills, or if the boil suddenly develops one or more red streaks going away from the sore. Those could be signs of something more serious and you would want her to see a doctor immediately. But I really think you won’t have any problems.”
Marie-Thérèse thanked her again and walked her to the door. Before she left, Monique bent down and gave Celisse another lollipop. “Because you were so brave,” she said. “But save it for after lunch, okay?” At Celisse’s grave nod, Monique patted Celisse’s head and left.
The baby awoke then and began to cry. Taking Celisse’s hand, Marie-Thérèse returned to the kitchen where the baby was still in her seat, trying to suck on her fist. “Looks like we’d better get Raquel something to eat,” she said to Celisse. She scooped the baby into her arms and immediately, Raquel began sucking on her sleeve. “There, there. Patience little one.” It took only minutes to prepare a bottle and to watch the infant sucking greedily and with such innocent abandon that Marie-Thérèse couldn’t help but love her.
The bottle was only half gone when a putrid smell wafted up from Celisse. Marie-Thérèse looked at the child, who stood by the chair, staring at her feet. Under Marie-Thérèse’s gaze she began to inch toward the table.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Marie-Thérèse grabbed her arm before she could slide under. “Did you go potty in your pants?”
Celisse didn’t respond, but Marie-Thérèse knew the answer. The past few days she had spent a lot of time with Celisse, teaching her to wipe properly, but she had begun to suspect that Celisse’s problem went beyond learning to wipe. What appeared in Celisse’s underwear three times a days was blacker and more odorous than even human waste had a right to be.
Marie-Thérèse took a deep breath. “Celisse,” she said striving to hide all signs of anger, “you know you’re not supposed to go in your pants. That’s what the potty is for. You’re a big girl, and you need to go there. You don’t wet your pants, do you? Of course not. And you shouldn’t mess them either.”
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